


Bared

by Adoxography



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Choking, Episode Related, Episode: s02e03 Masquerade, M/M, Non-Sexual Kink, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 01:02:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11197179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adoxography/pseuds/Adoxography
Summary: Set immediately after 2x03. Finch is still reeling after being kidnapped by Root.





	Bared

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I'm not fandom hopping entirely, I just needed to reinvigorate my writing juices and I got hit with inspiration this morning and couldn't rest until I'd written this. No spoilers please I'm still only on Season 2! Special thanks to the best beta ever [Shell_and_Bone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell_and_bone/pseuds/shell_and_bone) who also got me into this show (though I'm not sure I should be thanking her for that, I'm Suffering). I'll be back to working on WIPs soon! 
> 
> Rated M for kinky undertones.

“Does it have to be beer?” Finch asks. Reese’s tight lips twitch upwards in a facsimile of a smile. He glances down at Finch’s white knuckled grip on Bear’s leash and shakes his head.

“No,” he replies.

Finch doesn't have a response for that, so they walk in silence. Reese slows his pace to match Finch’s stiff gait, watching him out of the corner of his eye. It's no wonder Finch chooses to avoid social interaction; for such a private man, he has a terrible poker face. His eyes dart from side to side and his lips are pale and tight. His nostrils flare as he sniffs and frowns.

“Mr. Reese, where are you taking me?”

If Finch is asking, he must already know, so Reese shrugs and says, “Somewhere quiet we can get a drink.”

Finch frowns, but he doesn't turn back or argue.

Reese relishes the familiar streets, the park with its dog walkers and chess players. He feels lighter here, in a place where he knows the faces of his neighbours, where he can tell at a glance who doesn't belong. Finch is able to enter the code for building access, although if he has a key to Reese’s studio loft, he doesn't use it. Reese opens the door and ushers Finch inside with a hand on the small of his back.

Bear’s claws skitter on the hardwood and Finch reaches down to unleash him. Bear pants happily even as his paws slide on the smooth floor.

“Please sit down.” Reese gestures to the couch, but Finch goes to the kitchen table instead, angling his chair so he can keep watchful eyes on Reese. Reese shrugs, and instead of reaching for the bottle of whisky above the fridge, or the cheap vodka from the freezer, or fetching the rum of even more dubious quality from his bedside table, he puts on the kettle. Finch’s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn't comment.

“I only have bagged green if that's alright by you, otherwise it's all black,” says Reese as he busies himself finding the kettle and pulling tea boxes down from their high shelves.

“Bagged is fine, thank you.” Bear has found his way to Finch’s side, sitting upright so Finch does not have to bend to scratch him behind the ears. Finch’s hand moves slowly, fingers running over Bear’s soft head with no indication he is even aware of his actions.

Reese sets the steeping pot on the table, and when Finch shoots him a stern look, he fetches a placemat and coasters. When the tea is poured, Finch looks only slightly more relaxed than he did outside in the street. Normally Reese is a man accustomed to long silences. On a normal day he may actually appreciate the quiet. But today is not a normal day, this week has not been a normal week, and Harold Finch stares at the far wall with a tightness in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

“Sophia offered me a job in Brazil,” says Reese to break the silence.

“You refused, of course,” Finch replies, his gaze not moving from the wall.

Reese frowns, reaching across the table to pour the tea, hot water splashing his hand as he angles the dripping teapot. “My place is here,” he says. “I told her that.”

“I see.”

“This is my home,” Reese presses. He puts his mug down, leaning across the table to touch the back of Finch’s hand. “I would do everything in my power to protect my home.”

Finch looks down at his hand, at Reese’s fingers on it, then finally, across the table. “What about things outside your power?” he asks, low and quiet.

“I think you’re underestimating how far I’m willing to go for something I care about.” He pulls his hand back.

Finch flinches, looking back at the wall, “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Mr. Reese, but you are not omnipotent.”

Reese chuckles. “No, I’m not you.”

“You’re thinking of the machine, not me,” Finch replies, setting his untouched tea on a coaster. Finch swallows and Reese watches his Adam’s apple bob above the tight knot of his tie. “I’m not—” his voice cracks and he casts glassy eyes down. Bear whimpers at Finch’s tight grip on the scruff of his neck and he immediately releases him, eyes wide. He jerks his hand back and holds it close. The bandage wrapped around his palm is as clean and white as ever; the cut wasn’t even that deep, but he can’t seem to bear to look at it.

“ _ Ga gaan liggen.” Go lay down,  _ Reese orders and Bear rushes to obey, paws clicking and sliding as he scampers over to the couch, hopping up onto the corner with the towel laid across it just for him.

Finch watches him leave and turns his shoulders back to Reese, his body is still angled away from the table so he can only watch Reese out of the corner of his eye. Reese doesn’t stay seated for long, standing up only so he can kneel before Finch, his hands flat on his thighs and his forehead bowed low.

“Mr. Reese, what in the world are you doing?”

Reese can’t see his face, but he can hear the confusion and surprise in his voice, it almost masks the thickness from earlier, the way his throat had tightened as he fought off his natural emotional response.

“I will not fail you,” Reese promises, looking up to meet Finch’s owlish, red-eyed gaze.

It’s his bandaged hand Finch reaches out with, settling on Reese’s cheek, fingertips rasping against rough stubble. Just like with Bear, Finch doesn't even seem to realize he’s done it until Reese tilts his head up and wraps fingers around Finch’s wrist, guiding his hand to his bared throat. He can feel the pressure of Finch’s hand when he swallows and he knows Finch can feel it too—when he lets go of Finch’s wrist, the hand stays. Reese stares up at him through half-lidded eyes, lips parted as he breathes through his mouth, slow and deep.

“Harold…” he whispers, and he’s begging, but he doesn't know what for until Finch’s other hand joins the first and he sighs with relief. He can see Finch’s expression, cautious, unsure, but not afraid. The corners of Reese’s mouth twitch upwards and Finch’s brow creases.

The hands on his neck are loose and they tremble, so Reese leans into them, increasing the pressure on his windpipe. It’s not enough to cut off his air, not by a long shot. In fact, he’s not sure that from this angle Finch would even have the hand strength to do it, but Reese knows without a moment’s hesitation that if Finch were able, he would do absolutely nothing to stop him.

Reese’s knees begin to ache before the hands on his throat tighten. It feels like an eternity he’s been kneeling and it’s only a moment of pressure, a tightening on his throat and a quickening of his pulse. Finch can feel it, he has to feel the way his veins pulse and throb. It’s not arousal, now is not the time for that, and looking at Finch’s lap he knows that whatever is making his eyes widen is nothing like lust.

“Please,” he says as if he knows what he is asking for. Anything, everything, whatever Finch will give him. The hands tighten again and then they are gone, sliding off his neck and onto his shoulders, holding him down, holding him back.

“I—” Finch starts.

Reese tilts his head and runs his cheek over Finch’s pale knuckles, like a dog would. The pressure on his shoulders lessens and when Reese repeats the gesture, Finch lets go of his shoulders and it takes all his will not to fall into Finch’s lap, to press his face against his thighs and whisper,  _ ‘I’m sorry’. _

Finch doesn’t want his apologies. After all, Finch doesn’t blame him, not like he should. Hands on his cheeks, running up his jaw and tilting his head up. Fingers skimming over his brow, hands covering his eyes. Back down along the line of his nose and to his lips, which he parts, allowing the tip of Finch’s middle and index fingers to slip inside and over his teeth. Reese wants to push his tongue forwards and taste them; his fingers would be salty.

Finch’s eyes are squeezed shut. The lines of exhaustion under them are framed by his glasses and his mouth is thin and unhappy. He is trying not to cry. Reese wishes he knew how to tell him that it was allowed.

When he thinks Finch is about to pull away, Reese turns his head to press an open mouthed kiss to his uninjured palm, then his wrist. Reese reaches for Finch’s other hand, and slides his fingernail underneath the fastener for the bandage. When Finch doesn’t pull away, he undoes it, unwrapping clean white gauze until his palm is bare. A thin red line marrs his pale skin. The wound is closing, but it will not scab unless Harold gives it air. Reese presses his lips to that palm, too. A quiet hiss escapes Finch.  

Those kisses will change things between them. Even if Finch would be happy to pretend they never happened, Reese cannot let him. They don’t say another word for the rest of the night; there will be time to talk in the morning. Reese lays awake, facing the door with his arm slung around Finch’s waist. Bear snores softly on the other side of them, drooling on Finch’s outstretched hand. Finch is wedged between them, trained killers both, and he sleeps through the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully that was okay for a first attempt writing for this show. I know I'm a bit late to the party. Finch got me like HungjFHFJKLD.


End file.
